There are times, when the thought of ridding the world of every trace of myself seems like a good idea.

If you cannot see it, then perhaps it never was?



It was quite a disastrous day. Everyone was moody and gloomier than usual, a side-effect of the holidays gone bad. I stayed 9 hours, which I haven’t done in a while. I felt every hour of it, because for whatever reason I woke up not feeling too well. I was tired and physically felt like crap, which makes little sense since I got more sleep the night before than I generally do in two combined nights.

I also made the mistake of not eating. I was there from 10:30 to 7:30, and by the time I got home I really needed something. I must have been more stressed than I thought, because I ate more than I should have. I didn’t binge, but it still wasn’t good. I wasn’t even hungry after I ate leftovers, but for whatever reason I kept going. I was pretty pissed off at myself.

I have the day off tomorrow, and I don’t really know what I’m going to do to keep my anxiety at a minimum. I’m sure I’ll probably go at it again, eating until I get too sick to continue—that seems to be one of the few ways to find some sort of temporary relief. I don’t know how else to deal with it at this point. No matter what I do, nothing seems to provide enough distraction and I slowly slip into a horrid state of mind where I end up laying in bed for hours, awake, planning things I shouldn’t be planning. Death has become this obsession to me, and sadly, it is one of the very few things I waste energy thinking about. I run the list off in my head of the things that I could do with my life, and every time I find myself disinterested.

There is no time other than the present, at least it is that way in this head of mine.


I slept after I got home from work yesterday, a good five hours at least. It was filled with the strangest dreams. I’m suspicious that one of the dreams is something that has been going on for a long time, and maybe that is why I feel this incredible sense of de ja vu off and on.

I’m in my old livingroom at the home I grew up in. It has its dingy, dark brown carpet and a couch that curls around most of the room. The television is on, and I vaguely look up at it from time to time. I’m walking a little circuit in the part of the room not obstructed by furniture. I must be pacing for hours, because the movie changes and I keep going. But this is a desperate sort of thing, because I’m taking longer strides and I feel a slight panic in myself that I don’t really understand.

Sometimes when I pace in the real world it is like that. I get very anxious and emotional, and I might be crying or just walking much quicker, not really looking at anything in particular, not really seeing.

This behavior started in the time I used to spend alone. My first year of home schooling was very rough on me at first. My mother had three jobs and was barely ever around, and my father had begun to work long into the night instead of coming home at 5:00 as he used to. I was completely alone. My friends had all gone to the highschool I’d rejected. I’d even gone to the orientation for it, but a few weeks before I was to attend, I had a  bit of a breakdown. I couldn’t go. I’d opted to go on home school, mostly out of cowardice. I was afraid, so very afraid. I knew I would only be bullied and harassed even worse than what I’d already gone through. And…I couldn’t. I knew I didn’t have it in me just then to deal with it all again. I was already having thoughts of killing myself, and had gotten to my highest weight ever.

Maybe it was anxiety that started it. Being alone for so long, for days and days when all I had ever known was a life surrounded by other people. They gave me so much homework I distinctly recall falling asleep on my open textbooks trying to figure everything out without someone there to help me. But regardless, I got up later and later, and tried at my studies less and less. I stopped caring. I kind of went into my own world, and for a time, I felt better than I ever had. I even lost all the weight I’d gained and got to my lowest weight because I started spending a large quantity of time exercising.

The pacing had gotten worse, however, and I’d spend hours and hours at night doing it. I had this insane fear of being caught, and would listen intently for the sounds of anyone coming to check on me at night when everyone would finally get home.

In this dream, the kitchen light is on. I keep returning to the kitchen, repeatedly filling glasses with tea. This thirst is on me and I can’t seem to quench it. Back and forth I go for a while, glancing at the television, before stepping quietly into the kitchen to refill my glass yet again. I look out the window for a moment to see the black of night, and a very delicate light from the moon filtering through the branches of the lone tree out on our lawn. I don’t know why the blinds aren’t drawn, and my paranoia suddenly comes to me. I pull the shades down and spin them until all the light is blocked out. I look over my shoulder to the livingroom, and take off my headphones to listen. Just the quiet drone of the television and whatever is playing. It says ‘IFC’ in the corner, which I notice for some reason.

It’s when I go to the kitchen and come back again, that I nearly let out a sound. My mother is walking over to the couch, and looks over at me.

“You scared me,” I say, taking a deep breath and yanking my headphones off a little too irritably.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she answers.

She’s had insomnia for what must be years now, and it used to be common for her to get up in the middle of the night to watch I Love Lucy or The Brady Bunch while I’d be doing my pacing in my bedroom. Occasionally she’d walk in, I’d get very agitated (at being caught and not knowing how to explain it), and wait until she went to sleep again. Sometimes it would take four or five hours, but I’d wait patiently for the sounds of the television to die out. 

“You should take something,” I advise.

It’s not because I care that she sleeps that I say this, I say it because I want her to go away and let me have my time to myself.

“I just did.”

I nod disinterestedly, my eyes wandering to the television. God how I hate that thing. I only use it to cover up the sound of my footsteps. These days, nearly four years in the future, I use a fan. 

I think we sit on the couch for a while, and I’m impatient as ever, asking her if she feels tired. It takes a bit, but finally she does, and I breathe a sigh of relief when she returns to her bedroom. In this dream she is not injured. Her hands are normal, not curled under, and she walks like she always did, without the shuffle that I’ve finally gotten used to.

I have to go get something to drink. I realize too late that all the tea is gone. I start water on the stove, hurriedly. In the meantime, I grab a soda and start chugging that down. My eyes keep going to the window.

Did anyone see me, I wonder?

It withers.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, working the holiday. The crew I liked was there, and we made sure we left the building as soon as we were able. We laughed a lot and joked around, and a few of the guys from the old store I was trained at even dropped by on their way to wherever. We kept talking about turkey and all the shit we were going to do when we got home. I even got invited to someone’s house, but I declined. I have to admit trying deep fried turkey was definitely interesting enough to cause me pause. But I knew my parents were expecting me home, and I wouldn’t have gone anyway, I don’t think. I am almost sure I have never spent a Thanksgiving away from my parents.

With these sort of days that gloom in me always settles down over the world like a fog, tainting it. It makes me forget about the good far too easily. I’m tired and depressed today, but there’s little reason as to why. I even stood in the doorway watching one of the guys smoke and coaxed him into giving me a cigarette. I don’t know why, really. I fiddled with it between my fingers then dropped it in a pocket for later, not quite getting why I asked or why it mattered, or why I didn’t feel a little bad at the look he gave me, one that seemed to say he had just handed over a death sentence.

I ate dinner alone at the table because no one wanted to clear it. I refuse to sit in front of the television with a TV tray with either the news blaring or some low-budget Christmas movie playing. I’m tired of those things, tired of the mundane shit that’s supposed to pass time. In fact, I hate it so much I’d rather sleep. I’m not even sure what it all is supposed to mean anymore. I stay home and do nothing because I have no idea what else to do since nothing seems to appeal to me. Yes, maybe it is sad to say this, maybe it sounds like some seriously pessimistic individual’s point of view, but fuck it. I’ve lasted this long, I think the least I should get out of it is my right to speak of my hatred of it.

They have these beautiful journals at the bookstore. I asked for one for Christmas even though I barely write in mine anymore. I tore out most of the front pages in my oldest one. I recall blood being smeared on those pages, once upon a time. Instead I found what was left: a pressed daisy and lots of ramblings and scribbles. They all nearly got burned not too long ago. I had shoved them into my backpack along with a lighter. I’m still not sure why I didn’t do away with them.

Yesterday was a terrible day. My ritual has started again. I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter anymore since there is no covering it up anyway. I was always so discreet about it. Now it’s blatant and unapologetic. Oh well, I never wore shorts anyway.

Nearly over. Nearly.

Each day that passes is like adding a brick to a building. It has to finish sometime, even if it’s just one brick at a time—it can’t go on forever. I won’t go on forever. It doesn’t matter what anyone says, because in my head it’s already confirmed that I’m not getting whatever it is I want or need, and therefore there’s no point in going on searching for anything. It all gets canceled out in the end anyway. There’s so much bad, it seems, that it drowns out anything that might convince me to keep going.

 I did my time. I made an effort. Sometimes that’s the best one can do is try. I’m sorry if that’s not good enough. I’m sorry if I was weak and gave in, but I’m tired of suffering. I’m tired of putting on a smile that doesn’t mean anything and tired of trying to keep up a better attitude for those that I felt needed it. I can’t. I won’t have myself entirely destroyed before this is over—I would have myself go in one piece, even if it is the worst of things. I don’t have it in me to keep trying. I’ve run on empty forever now, and I have to acknowledge that eventually I do have to stop.

I don’t care if it is wrong or it is selfish, because I deserve my goddamned mistake. I get one, and I choose this. This will be my undoing. I want sanity out the window and hope and all those other fucking things with it. I want to throw them out and not be this anymore. I want to die bound to nothing but myself. I want to die with no guilt on my conscience, no regret. I want this to be clean and easy.

And yeah, maybe I don’t deserve it. Maybe I should be the one that is punished and forced to live. Maybe there are a lot of people out there who are better than me and didn’t get the chances I did. But you know what? That’s not my fault. I can’t be blamed for them, or made to feel belittled because I chose to stop instead of go when someone else would have given anything to be in my place. We play with the cards we’ve got.

I don’t know when, but soon. I’ve promised myself soon. We’ll have to see. I honestly don’t know how much more I’ll endure.  

I had an awful day at work. I guess that sort of thing is something I should get adjusted to, but true to form, all I did when I got home was eat and bake a bunch of sugary cookies that I promptly ate. I know it’s childish, and even when it’s happening I know I shouldn’t be doing it and all of that. But that part of me that sees only doom and doesn’t care, says ‘fuck it’. The one thing though, is that it  is the same part that gets me through the day.

If I cared, if I really did get incredibly stressed like I see others doing (one woman in particular has gained over 50 pounds since coming to work here) I would be much more of a mess than I am. I feel more irritation than anything else. I’m annoyed and not in the mood to perpetually deal with/train new people who don’t even try, then watch the very few good workers have to overcompensate for all the folks that fuck around and do nothing. And they’re cutting hours ever the more, leaving most people with 7-9 hours a week. I am one of the few who hasn’t been cut that low, though I am slightly under 80 hours for my two weeks instead of the 100 and something I was pulling a few months ago.

I’ve been doing almost well. I’ve actually been going a week at a time without a binge, which hasn’t happened in months. But I’m still eating more than I should, maintaining my weight instead of losing anything. I feel horrible as I am, and am leaving the house less and less. The last few times weren’t even willing. And it’s ridiculous, because a few years ago it would have never occured to me that I could even weight anything under 155. Yet a few months ago I was at 125 and thought I was disgustingly, horribly overweight. At 145 right now, I feel like a whale, for lack of any better description. I got to 137 on a five day fast a couple of weeks ago, but now I don’t know if I have it in me to do that again. I do fine all day, but once I am home from work I eat too much because I’m tired and irritable and don’t feel like going without food all night.

Binging is also made more difficult by the fact that we have very little food in the house. Enough for dinner and a few snacks, and that’s it. My mother is skimping so much on the gorceries that half the time I find myself confronted by the fact that I’m either going to have to eat cereal or go to the grocery store myself. She’s been complaining about my eating habits, and finally I have eased off a bit. Every month the amount of money she uses is lessened, and now she won’t buy anything that isn’t essential, and even went to the point of buying nearly everything generic, even things like toothpaste, which she used to never do. I give them money to pay for myself, but it obviously isn’t enough at the moment. Every time I attempt to give her something extra she starts crying and won’t let me. I’ve gotten to the point where I snatch up things from her cart and put them with mine so that I can pay for them, or I buy her dinner if we stop somewhere (always fast food).

My dad won’t even buy his books that he wants. I think the only things we won’t go without are the satellite and the internet; otherwise everything else is more or less expendable. I keep thinking it will clear up eventually, but it hasn’t, it’s worsened, in fact. The economy can blossom whenever it does, but it won’t matter, because we’ll be the same as always. Ever since my mother’s accident it’s been a fairly shitty experience, and working this job is the only real taste I’ve had of being able to buy things on a whim. It’s never really been like that before. It’s amazing to be able to buy expensive electronics and not have to freak out about it because I would have to scrape up everything I’ve got to have it. I’ve probably been spending more than I should, but I use my low moods as an excuse. At least I feel better for a short while, right? Sometimes even buying things can’t do it, though. It’s those times that I get frustrated.  I should use it for things that are important, but I find myself caring little. I’ve even been playing with the idea of not getting the insurance that was offered to me (which is frighteningly inexpensive). I won’t get therapy, and I haven’t even bought myself the car that I need.

I seem to have no problem floating aimlessly, with no plans for a future. Sometimes I think that I am planning my own doom, carefully constructing it in the background, in a place my consiousness can’t quite see.

Bottomless pit.

I went outside this morning to find a foot of snow had fallen in the night and was continuing to flutter down.

I’m not sure what brings on these bouts of bad mood. But yesterday was yet another, one spent crying too much and avoiding sleep. Now I can’t seem to find the rest I need unless I am exhausted. Taking naps is becoming increasingly more difficult. My body no longer wants to humor me, so it is on these 4-5 hours of sleep that I must survive. Today was the first day in about two weeks that I didn’t down caffeine to keep me awake. I endured the sleepiness. I will be sleepy, that is simply the way it is, I guess.

I got an interesting surprise this morning on my way to work. I didn’t know this song could even be played on the radio without being severely edited:

I always laugh a little bitterly at “I’m breathing, so I guess I’m still alive/even if signs seem to tell me otherwise”. The video to this song has always bothered me. The way the doll is so helpless, like a puppet to the creature that keeps it, forced to become whatever it wants it to be. Nothing but a slave, but then again, the creature too, is a slave to the doll when you think on it. It goes both ways. It was very odd that it played then, because I had been thinking about how much I feel like I ‘do unto others what has been done to me’. I feel like I turned the tables sometimes, and not always on what the perceived enemy was, but myself. And there is sanity to be found in that, whether I berate myself or the world at large.

I’m nothing but someone stuck on the idea of revenge, always trying to get back at all those injuries that were inflicted on me over the years. It may be a stupid way to be, but I know that part of my soul is dedicated to hating. I will never escape that, and my grudges will last until my death.